Faithful Unto Death

New Neighbors

winter to earn his living in the lumbering camps in the north woods. He was to do this work for many winters, returning south to work the family land or work “out” when jobs for pay offered themselves. New Neighbors leroy, michigan, november 1896 harriet madole, hearing her father’s step on the back stoop, quietly closed The Natural History of Man and pushed it behind the serving bowls. She supposed he was right when he said there was a time for study and a time for work, and to do either properly, they shouldn’t be mixed. But paring turnips was one of those repetitive jobs you could do with your mind miles away, on the other side of the Paci‹c Ocean, with the Melanesians to be precise. You only needed to glance down now and then to be sure you got all the really green part off the top, feel around the sides for any holes from borers, and then it was just a matter of cutting it into pieces of a certain size. At age thirteen she could do it in her sleep, and still learn about the Melanesians and their distant neighbors, the Fijians. The book was not hers, of course, but her teacher, impressed by the girl’s enthusiasm for the subject, had let her borrow it during the summer vacation.“I know you’ll treat it with respect and return it in its pristine condition,” he’d cautioned her. When her father came in, he smiled approvingly at the sight of the dutiful young girl at the kitchen table applying herself single-mindedly to her task. “Turnips, eh? Mash ’em up good with lots of butter, you know I like ’em that way. Where’s your mother, Hattie?” “She’s upstairs.” Footsteps tapped down the steep staircase (more of a ladder with broad rungs, really), and Mr. Madole stepped into the other room to greet his wife. As their voices sank to a quiet murmur, quick as a ›ash Hattie wiped her hands on her apron and recovered her book, ‹nding her place quickly. She propped it open with the edge of the white ceramic turnip bowl and continued reading: “For the more domestic avocations stone 248 axes, three and four-pronged ‹sh spears, and well-made nets of cocoa ‹bres are employed. Canoes are hollowed out from the trunks . . .” So engrossed was she that she failed to hear her father say, “I heard some interesting news today. Hoover stopped by. Says he met the family who’s working shares on Brewer’s place. It’s that sheriff that murdered his wife over Traverse City way.” “Oh, no! Surely not!” “Hoover says he seems like a perfectly nice fellow.” “We can’t allow him to stay, surely?” “I guess it’s not certain that he’s the one that did it. He’s out walking around, anyway.” “Oh, he’s probably friends with the judge. How terrible, that he’s come here!” “He’s got a new wife, Hoover says, a real looker, too. She’s not worried , apparently.” “That’s just the sort of thing Mr. Hoover would notice . . .” Hattie dreamed along with the New Hebrideans, unaware that in the next room her parents were discussing the father of the young man whom she was, eight years hence, to marry. Death in Hadjin hadjin, turkey, february 1904 the room shimmered and danced before Charlotte’s half-open eyes. Insects buzzed in her ears, burrowed into her skin; worms chewed through her joints, or so it seemed. Her fever raged, as it had every day for nearly two weeks. She longed for a drink of cool water, but the ceramic bottle by the bed was empty. She didn’t call out; Miss Sullivan had plenty to worry her just now, without having to drop everything and tend to her. Just a few minutes ago (unless it was a few hours, or maybe it was yesterday?) the main door to the compound had rattled and crashed again under the butts of Turkish ri›es. It was a good solid door, built of cedar to withstand hard use, but they didn’t dare to leave the door closed under the imperious summons of “the sultan’s troops,” dirty ragged fellows who would have spent their days in prison under ordinary circumstances. The sultan was no fool, of course. Bands of men like these local 249 ...